


Saving Grace

by TheosOxonian



Series: The Wings of the Morning [1]
Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-27
Updated: 2012-12-27
Packaged: 2017-11-22 15:16:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/611234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheosOxonian/pseuds/TheosOxonian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Robbie muses on his relationship with James</p>
            </blockquote>





	Saving Grace

**Author's Note:**

> So this _was_ my first Lewis/Hathaway fic - turns out it's now my first Lewis/Hathaway series. Well ~~duet~~. Trio. 
> 
> The series title is taken from Psalm 139: 8-10.
> 
>  
> 
> _"If I ascend up into heaven, thou art there: if I make my bed in hell, behold, thou art there._   
> _If I take the wings of the morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea;_   
> _Even there shall they hand lead me, and thy right hand shall hold me"._
> 
>  
> 
> I am also writing a series of much longer fics that might never be finished, but thought I'd test the waters with this... Enjoy?!

It’s odd how things have different meanings. Odd how things change their meanings. Christmas used to be about trees and trinkets and his mam’s gingerbread. Then it was about Val and the kids and a tangible sense of home. And then it was something odd and unfinished, like a half furnished room. Now it’s different again. Smattering of cards on his desk, motely collection of kittens in Santa hats and kids in the snow.

There are always fewer cards on James’ desk. They’re finally learning that he doesn’t want or return empty platitudes. His own card from James isn’t there. He started taking it home years back, displaying it on the mantelpiece, away from the casual glances of curious colleagues. Liked to see it there, next to Lyn’s, nestled in amongst those from the extended family. Proper place. Home with him. Took him a while to accept what his heart had already known. Too long really, thank god James has a patient soul. Not many would have waited so many years; time marches on and with it go people. But then again maybe time is different for a man who wanted to be a priest. God’s time is different isn’t it. Must be. 

They’ve not exchanged cards yet. Wont for a few days, not until after midnight mass. A little tradition of theirs; him waiting for James, with a warm home and a glass of brandy to stave off the chill of a cold, cool early morning. Cards, a soft kiss and then bed. He’s learnt over the years that it’s the small things that light James’ eyes; a hand tucked into his when they go walking on the downs, an arm around his waist as they watch the grandkids in the garden. For all the philosophy and theology and his ten-ton brain the lad’s heart is surprisingly simple. Hearth and home and the knowledge that he’s loved, wholly and truly, in all his facets.

So he’s become used to waiting in places like this. At first he used to sit in the car, or wander around the graveyard. But gradually it was the porch and then standing at the back. Like collecting the kids from their friends’ parties; fish out of water, odd at ease in a world not quite understood. But now he’s comfortable sat in the pews as James takes his time with his Maker. He’s still not right with God, but he’s learned to like churches again. Their stillness and quietude is a balm not a bore.

James is on his knees today. Doesn’t always pray like that, most times he just sits, bent forward, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. He asked him once, years ago, long before they started up, why people kneel to pray. After all he’d seen James pray in cars and at crime scenes, wandering off to a church and stooping down before an altar just seemed unnecessarily old fashioned when you knew God was in all things. 

It had scared him bloody rigid the first time James slid to his knees and took him in his mouth. Hot, wet heat; clever, nimble tongue; lips, stretched, red, glistening. Subjugation, submission and acceptance he’d said; that sometimes there was nothing else to do but offer yourself up in perfect surrender to His will. 

The sight and sensation had robbed him of sense, left his brain stuttering to catch up even as he’d thrust forward, dropped his hands to the blonde head. Cringing at thoughts of Crevecoeur and heresy or blasphemy or whatever the hell it was when you thought your boyfriend looked like a fallen angel and all you wanted to do was bugger him against the nearest flat surface. He remembered he’d tensed, been ready to pull James to his feet, to kiss him and calm them both, take them back to bed and to sheets and to a place where they both knew the steps. But his eyes had stopped him, soft in the light of a spring evening, open, inviting, vulnerable. He’d had to close his own eyes then, run his hands over the close cropped hair, touched a finger to a cheek, cupped the back of his head in trembling hands and accepted the gift with an exultant heart. 

Grace, James had told him once, was a gift freely given; mercy and goodness and compassion and love; unmerited and unceasing, pure and true. His own love couldn’t compare to God’s, little as he knew about religion he at least knew that much. But every day that James offered of himself, stayed by him and with him and loved him completely, well every day he’d give back the same. Give all he could, fiercely and wholly and always and for all time.

Across the church James slipped quietly to his feet and approached on soft soles, bowing to the altar as he crossed the aisle. A quick smile as they paused by the door, a quiet squeeze as James took his hand and then it was on into the evening and the soft night air.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all for your lovely comments, they are very much appreciated. Plus it always helps with the creative process!


End file.
